Sunday, November 27, 2016

Something different

So I've been away from home for the Thanksgiving break, and I forgot to take a copy of The Best Man with me (gosh, doesn't everyone travel with all their stories in tow?). So I won't be able to post an update today. However, I remembered that my "award-winning" story "I Am Devotee" from Devotion House was never posted here, so I figured I'd copy it here in lieu of a real update. It's a little more angsty than my usual, but hopefully you will enjoy it if you haven't already read it.

I am Devotee

Damn him.

This is what the bastard has done to me: he’s made me into a voyeur. I’m the
creep staring at him across the room. But I can’t help but watch this creature,
because to look away would be a travesty. He’s striking—from his shaggy
blond mane to his vivid green eyes to his broad shoulders and arms with muscles
that ripple with each movement, clearly visible under his worn T-shirt.

But let’s not kid ourselves. None of that is the reason that I can’t take my
eyes off Logan Winchester.

No, what draws me to Logan like a magnet is what’s below those firm,
tight muscles in his chest. And by that, I mean his legs. It’s the part of him
that makes everyone in the room stare at him—then quickly look away. Long legs,
far too thin when compared with his brawny biceps, tapering down to sneakered
feet, positioned next to each other in a single foot plate. Those legs
never move, except to sway slightly when he shoves his calloused palms against
the pushrims of his sleek chrome wheelchair.

I wish I could stop staring.

Damn him.

My own seat across the bar affords me a fantastic view of Logan’s body as he
makes his way to his final destination. I sip on my frosted glass of
beer, silently rooting for him as I simultaneously root against him. I
want him to fail and I want him to succeed. You might say I’m conflicted.

That’s what this bastard has done to me. He’s fucking ripping me apart.

Logan pauses by the round table just adjacent to the exit. He takes a
deep breath and rakes a shaking hand through his golden locks. I squeeze my own
hand shut, nearly able to feel those silky strands in my palm just before my
nails bite into my palm. I dared touch his hair only once—in jest—and
while he had laughed, I had been so flustered by the sensation that my cheeks
grew so crimson that I had to turn away.

Katy Perry’s voice blasts over the speakers, loud enough to block out the
words coming from Logan’s lips. The way you turn me on. I. Can’t.
Sleep. Yeah, you said it, Katy Perry.

Whatever he’s said is enough to get the girl’s attention. She turns,
blinking blue eyes lined with far too much mascara. With her slightly
wavy black hair and slim build, she almost resembles Katy Perry—that’s Logan’s
type. Even though I don’t know her, I hate her—that bitch. I hate that
she’s got the hair and the eyes and the figure Logan wants.

I, on the other hand, am hopelessly brown-eyed, dirty blond, and buxom.
Just one reason that I have landed square in the goddamn Friend Zone.

The girl’s blue eyes light briefly when they settle on Logan’s handsome
face. Yes, he’s fucking hot—she’s got eyes and she can see it as well as I can.
Her dark red lips spread into a sensual smile that slips precipitously
when she finally notices his method of transportation. The chair.

Logan gets it—I can tell by the way his smile falters. He sees her
reaction. He’s not clueless. But he forges on. His lips move,
perhaps offering to buy her a drink?

Moment of truth. Will Miss Katy Perry overlook Logan’s one fatal flaw?
Or will she allow the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met to buy her a drink?

She shakes her head no.

Thank fucking God.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It would have hurt if
Logan went home with Katy Perry tonight. Hurt bad. But I hate
seeing the anguish on his face as he returns to our table empty-handed. The
Wheel of Shame, Logan called it once.

Logan pulls up to our table, tucking his legs under the surface, out of my
visual field. I know he has no sensation down there, a fact revealed to
me one night when we’d both had a bit too many beers. I wonder what would
happen if I reached out and put my hand on the surface of his bony knee.
Would he know? And if he knew, would he flinch? Wheel away?
Tell me how yes, yes, he likes me, but just not like that?

“I take it that she said no,” I murmur.

Logan snorts and shakes his mane of yellow hair. “Was there any doubt?
Honestly, Lucy. I told you that it was pointless.”

I hear the pain in his voice. Yes, I was the one who encouraged him to
traverse the bar to talk to the young woman he’d been admiring all night. Call
me a masochist if you’d like. But I knew how drawn Logan was to her. And in my
head, it seemed an impossibility that any woman could refuse the Adonis sitting
before me.

Logan groans and takes a swig of his half-finished Sam Adams. He wipes
his lips with the back of his wiry forearm. I love the golden hairs on
his forearms, the way they glisten in the overhead lights of the bar.
Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine those arms enclosing my body.
I imagine my head on his broad shoulder, the weight of my body resting on
those thin, still legs.

I am sick. Sick.

If God forbid Logan knew the way I grew wet just thinking about being close
to the imperfect parts of his body, he’d… well, I can’t imagine what he’d do.
Hate me? Never speak to me again? Expose me to everyone I know?

No. No, I can’t risk it. Goddamn it.

When Logan first joined the agency where I’m employed, it was common knowledge
that I had a boyfriend of two years. John. John and I were going to move in
together, but Logan brought a quick end to that affair. My cravings for the
paraplegic I saw every day at work overpowered any feelings I thought I had for
my able-bodied lover.

While I had always known my predilection for men who traveled on wheels, I
had never known one like Logan before. Logan oozed sexiness. He personified
sexiness. I could barely think straight when I looked at him.

Sometimes it’s too much for me.

Damn him.

“The next one will say yes,” I promise him.

“No.” Logan shakes his head again. “No, there won’t be a next time.
I’m done.”

The tone of his voice tugs at something in my chest. “Done?”

“Done with women.” He nods his head decisively. “It’s easier that way.
After all, what woman in her mind would actually go out with me? I
mean, look at me.”

He slaps his leg when he says it, as if punishing them for their refusal to
carry him anymore. You idiot, I want to tell him. I look at you a
million times a day, and it’s all I can do to keep from ripping off my panties
and mounting you in your chair.

But while Logan claims he’d take any woman, I doubt that’s truly the case.
He’s used to model-beautiful waifs. I’m not in his league.
Just passably cute, nothing more.

“Lots of women would,” I say.

“Please, Lucy,” he mutters. “Let’s not kid ourselves.”

He leans forward to press his fingers into his temples, and his shirt sleeve
slips up just enough that I can see the tattoo on his upper arm. It’s a
compass. Before his injury, Logan loved to hike and rock climb.
It’s how he broke his back, and he hasn’t done it since, even though I’ve
researched adaptive equipment for him to get back to his own recreational
hobbies. I just can’t, Lucy, he told me.

Logan hesitates, his green eyes thoughtful. They are shimmering pools
of the greenest hue I’ve ever seen. I could get lost for a week in those
eyes. “I think I’d rather head out now, if you don’t mind. I’m not really
in the mood anymore.”

Logan covers the check because I paid last time. He studiously avoids
a glance in the direction of Miss Katy Perry as we head toward the exit.
When his back is turned, I catch her gawking in his direction.

You don’t know what you missed out on, you fool.

Logan releases the pushrims of his chair to glide down the ramp to the
parking lot. I forego the stairs and follow him instead. The
muscles in Logan’s arms and upper back tense as he brings his chair to a halt
at the end of the stairs. He’s been in that chair three years and he’s
comfortable, but not an expert. He still seems anxious when he has to do
a wheelie and bump down a flight of stairs. I watched him do it once, as
the devotee inside me did cartwheels. My insides were mush when I saw the way
he held onto his legs to maintain them in place during the trip.

Logan transfers into his car the same way he always does—he shifts his body
into the seat of the car, then pulls his legs inside in one swift movement. The
first time I was with him to witness the transfer, he actually apologized to
me. His cheeks colored pink and he muttered, Sorry. God
knows why he would apologize. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen in
my whole fucking life.

His wheelchair rides in the backseat, and I take the seat beside him. I
expect him to start the car, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just sits there,
staring out the windshield, his green, green eyes glassy.

“I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life,” he says.

Oh no. Not this.

“Oh, Logan,” I murmur.

“It’s true though.” He turns to me, and those beautiful eyes are so sad. How
could someone so ridiculously hot be so sad? “I need to learn to accept it.
To stop getting my hopes up only to be shot down.”

Damn that Katy Perry. “She’s just one girl.”

“It’s not one girl,” he shoots back. “It’s every girl.
Every girl I’ve tried to ask out. Every girl I’ve been set up with.
No woman is interested in being with a man who can’t walk.”

“But you’re so handsome!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Stupid, stupid…

“Handsome?” Logan looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. He
laughs. “Please, Lucy. That’s not a word anyone would ever use to
describe me. Even before.”

He really doesn’t freaking know. Is it possible he could have no clue how
incredibly sexy and good-looking he is?

I put my hand on his shoulder. I feel the tight muscles under my palm,
and I lose my train of thought. That’s what this bastard does to me. But
I don’t move my hand. Not this time.

“There will be women who want you,” I assure him.

He shakes his head. “They don’t want a cripple.”

“Some women don’t mind,” I insist. “In fact, some women even… like
that sort of thing.”

Logan’s features contort in anger. “Please. There aren’t any women who
would like me this way. Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true!”

He just shakes his head. “Yeah, and how do you know?”

“I know because…” I take a deep breath. This could be the biggest
mistake of my life. But fuck that. It’s a chance I have to take. I’m sick
of playing it safe. I’m sick of hiding who I am. “I’m one of those
women.”

Logan stares at me.

Oh shit.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this way,” I babble. “It’s… not as weird as
it sounds. It’s not like I… that I’m glad you got hurt or anything. I’m
not. I wouldn’t be. I just… I think your wheelchair is sexy.
And your legs are sexy. I mean, it’s not like I fantasize about
your legs or anything…”

Oh God, Lucy, stop talking.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again, my lips still moving against my will. “I
know you don’t feel that way about me, but I just… I had to tell you because
I’m sick of keeping secrets. And I think that you’re… I mean, you’re the
sexiest man I’ve ever known. So yeah.” I hazard a glance at his face, which
carries a stony expression. “Um. Are you going to, like, say something?”

Logan is silent for an eternal minute. Oh Christ, he hates me. I
should have kept my Goddamn mouth shut.

Finally, he reaches out and puts his warm, calloused palm on top of mine.
“You seriously like me this way?”

I nod timidly. “Is that okay?”

He doesn’t answer me right away. But what he does do is lean forward
and press those sumptuous lips—lips I’ve dreamt of kissing for the last
year—square against mine. I’ve lain in bed and touched myself as I
imagined this very moment, never imagining it could be as intense as it is
right now. Logan’s lips are so soft as the stubble on his chin scratches
against me, and I’m so stunned that I nearly forget to kiss him back.

This is the most intense kiss of my whole fucking life.

We separate after a few minutes or many hours or I don’t know how long.
Logan is staring at me. I look down and I see that his hands are
shaking as much as my own. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I
saw you,” he breathes.

He has? This Adonis really wanted boring, ordinary old me? How could
that be?

Welcome!

This blog contains erotic and romantic stories featuring disabled male love interests. If you would like to contribute a story or would like to be a regular contributor, email me at paradevo(at)yahoo.com.